


The Never-Played Symphonies

by weweremadeforeachothersherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Sheriarty - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 04:40:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2011254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weweremadeforeachothersherlock/pseuds/weweremadeforeachothersherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fall, Sherlock would have liked to have gotten back to work immediately.  He knew right where to start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Never-Played Symphonies

After the fall, Sherlock would have liked to have gotten back to work immediately.  He knew right where to start – rather, Mycroft knew.  But Mycroft had said no: “Give it a week.  We must be certain.  I have my men on it.  You will wait until I know the coast is well and truly clear.”

“Too much can happen in a week,” Sherlock had insisted, full well knowing how much could happen in one day, let alone seven of them.  “Waiting is stupid.”

Mycroft had smiled as he did when his way was the only way.  “That’s the pity, dear brother, about being dead: you don’t get to make the decisions.”

And that was that.

*

For a short time, for better or worse, life had closely resembled a whirlwind.  The sudden inaction was maddening.  Sherlock needed the distraction of work more than ever.  At first he’d thought it would keep him from sleeping, knowing what was waiting for him at week’s end.  But the opposite ended up being true.  His waking hours were harried in mind yet hazy, and Sherlock slept more nights than he did not.  Perhaps he was more tired than he’d thought.

*

Such relief, when Mycroft sent a car.  Finally, finally.  He had a purpose again.  It seemed to radiate from him in waves of suppressed impatience when he barged, all business, into Mycroft’s office.  Sherlock greeted Anthea with a quick nod before rounding on his elder brother’s desk, hands splayed over the edge.  “Four addresses.” 

“Three,” Mycroft corrected him, sliding a file out from a stack of several on his desk. 

“You said four,” Sherlock pressed. 

“The explosion two days ago in Chelsea…” Mycroft trailed off, not enjoying having to admit that he may have erred in waiting.  But safe was better than very sorry. 

Sherlock had not heard of the incident.  The papers didn’t interest him now, not with his own face all over them.  He was putting two and two together just as Mycroft opened the file, and Sherlock’s gaze trailed down to a picture clipped inside it, a fuzzy CCTV still of a face he’d never see again.  A chill ran between his shoulders, a wince he refused to let show.  “Rigged to blow,” Sherlock posited, and the thought came unbidden: _just like the man himself._

“Two were empty,” Mycroft continued.  “One landlord was contacted and, living currently in Biarritz, never met tenants.  Going by the marks on the floor and the unpaid electric, storage is a safe assumption.  The other building owner had only good things to say about the polite, soft-spoken man who ventured frequently on business trips, and whose biggest crime was playing opera too loud at odd hours.”  Mycroft peered up at Sherlock with a tight smile. 

Sherlock wasn’t smiling.  “The fourth.”

“Flat.  Philbeach Gardens, Earls Court.”  Mycroft slid a picture of the building across the desk.

“Confirmed as residence?”

“For the last year or so.  I have had men on it this past week.  It does not appear to be being watched.”

“How comforting.”  If it bothered Sherlock that Mycroft had known all along precisely where to find Moriarty, now was not the time to show it.  Sherlock knew that he, too, might have gotten an address had he only asked for it.

“You will, nevertheless, be careful.  You’re not going alone.”

“Your men will only distract me, they can wait outside,” Sherlock muttered brusquely as he took the picture, flat number written on it, and slid it into his shirt pocket. 

“Sherlock-“

“No.”

For the sake of continuing work, Sherlock needed this - to bring to light the criminal web so he could tear like a scythe at its finely woven threads.  But it was something else, too, that he could not voice.  A memorial or pilgrimage, akin to music fanatics venturing to Graceland.   A glimpse at hidden signs he might come to regret having missed.  A goodbye he’d never truly imagined having to make. 

He did not _have_ to confess this for the sentimental possibility to strike Mycroft, in all his elder wisdom, and worry him.  His narrowing eyes met Sherlock’s challenging ones, and for a long moment, neither spoke.

And that was that.

*

Mycroft had more than an address: he had a key.  Likely acquired and copied when the man Sherlock had only ever called Moriarty had been imprisoned.  Sherlock didn’t ask, and was counting on Jim to have made it irrelevant, anyhow, by changing the locks.  But it worked.  Had Mycroft not held out on him, Sherlock might have returned the favor of the once break-in before now.  He was finding many small reasons to feel bitter today. 

The silence of the spacious, immaculately clean flat should not have surprised him.  Of course it would be silent.  Perhaps he’d been expecting a trap, or for the man himself to pop out with a ‘Gotcha!’, or even be sitting on one of the white leather couches and ask what he was doing there.  But it was as still and quiet  as a fashionable mausoleum, and despite the rising excitement of being here, Sherlock moved slowly and quietly, respectfully as he entered the main room.  Bookshelves lined the white walls, and he found himself wondering whether James Moriarty was the sort of man who highlighted certain lines in his books.

Was?  Had been.

He stood before the shelves and felt at a loss as to where to begin.  He’d have liked to collect all the books and take them home, examine them one by one, but Mycroft’s men in the vehicle outside had only brought so many boxes.  Intended to cart out what Sherlock deemed necessary to investigation, not for the sating of a curiosity that was harder to name or to justify in anyone’s eyes but his own. 

No easier to pinpoint was the strange, aching emptiness he felt as he looked over the spines of several of the books, catching titles here and there, noticing signs of wear.  He could call Mycroft and tell him to order more helping hands and more boxes—  But that was not why he’d come, and time was limited by propriety and the certain hint of danger implied simply by being here.

The piano was the next thing to catch his eye, grand and shiny and home to a plaster bust of Liszt.  Sherlock felt compelled to touch the keys, to press where his wayward counterpart’s fingers had, but paused mid-step towards it.  He couldn’t.  These weren’t his things.  It would be morbid, somehow.  Then again, all of this was. 

Off the main room was a kitchen too large and clean for Jim to have possibly maintained himself, Sherlock reasoned, simply because he was unable to picture it happening.  The wine rack was nearly full, reds and whites waiting patiently for someone to indulge in them.  Everything he looked at, no matter how inanimate or impersonal, gave the impression of being stuck in time, waiting for the master of the house to return.  These rooms would yield the least that was relevant to his passion for the man’s _work_ , so he moved down the hall to find others.

Most of the doors were open – peering around one, he’d seen a bottle of aftershave on a bathroom sink, and had a moment’s wondering what cologne Jim wore.  Focus, focus…  The next door he came to was closed and locked, which made Sherlock frown despite a surge of adrenaline.  Anything could be behind the door.  Everything he needed, or a room-sized closet full of Westwood, or a tripwire designed to alert an associate of an emergency or, worse yet, transform the entire building into a bomb.  Sherlock’s lips pressed tightly together as he considered it.  It wasn’t practical to have wired the very flat in which Jim actually lived, though aside from the seemingly fitting titles of several of the books, he had only Mycroft’s assurance that it was the case.

Were Sherlock less invigorated by the prospects and potential, perhaps he’d have waited for cameras or sensors to be provided, and the room looked through without opening the door.  But the mystery was too compelling, and Sherlock dug out the lock pick he’d brought in case Mycroft’s key failed to work.  Kneeling, he pressed an ear to the door, listening for signs of hidden life or anything else on the other side.  It was several minutes’ worth of attention and effort before he’d managed the lock, snickering to himself in pride despite the earlier solemnity of the location.  “Apologies,” he murmured aloud as he slipped the pick away, though he had a sense that Jim would have understood. 

Office, Sherlock saw upon flipping the light switch, eyes widening as he took in the desk with four monitors, the expensive chair, day planner on the desk and several bins of miscellany.  Cords, bits of electronics – Sherlock could feel his smile widen.  Yes, this had been the room he really _needed._   Swinging open the closet doors, he was rewarded again – a _stack_ of laptops, likely fifteen in number, and several mobile phones rested atop a row of black filing cabinets.  They had to be full to support the weight of the items atop, and Sherlock confirmed this by rolling each drawer open in turn.  One was entirely full of notebooks – every size, every color, and flipping through one made him hopeful that the rest were just as full.  The files appeared to be organized by strings of numbers - a code to work out, perhaps, over time.  Knowing the source, it may even be a challenging one.  Sherlock had little better to do while pretending to be deceased than to dive into the wealth of information in this closet alone, not to mention whatever he could access on the two laptops left on the desk.

Sherlock felt wide awake for the first time in days.  It was as if he could breathe again. 

He would examine the desk drawers soon, but energized by having been so right, wanted to see the rest of the flat before moving onto details.  He moved less reverently than before, sweeping out of the room and down the hall into the next.  A touch to the light switch revealed this as the bedroom, and Sherlock felt some satisfaction in finding this one room less tidy than the others: clothing on the floor and over a chair, a wallet and change as well asa variety of cufflinks on the dresser.  But two things gave his roving eyes pause, and took his breath away once more.

The first was the padded interior of the empty gun case on the bed.  Empty, because Jim had to have sat there that morning and removed it from the case and-  Sherlock’s eyes squeezed shut for a moment, his head twitching to one side as if trying to forcibly delete the image that came.  There was a sudden tightness in his chest, eyes remaining closed as he took a deep breath and exhaled again slowly.  Focus.  _Work._   In ruining Sherlock, Jim had tried to ruin his reasons and ability to work, and Sherlock would not let it be.  Had to get past it.  Past missing John, past wondering about Jim and his damned piano and books, and this chillingly cold reminder of the moment the game had gone all wrong and ended for one of them.  For the other, a new chapter was just beginning.  He had much to prove to himself, and to the memory of the late genius who had underestimated him.  If he could just get past…

When he forced his eyes open again, he averted them from the case upon the half-made bed, and that was when he saw the second thing.  The next reminder that this wasn’t just work, but that the mind of James Moriarty had been the brightest star in Sherlock’s night.  That what was now his solitary journey had once been a delicate dance for two.

By all rights, it should have been in an evidence room in Scotland Yard, shouldn’t it?  Or in the collection of a museum or eccentric who appreciated excellent fakes…following that train of thought, yes, then it seemed perfectly fitting that it should be here in the same gilt frame, given a place of real honor above James Moriarty’s bed;

The Lost Vermeer.

Sherlock was gripped by awe even before he noticed the envelope taped to the bottom ledge of the frame.  A hushed huff of surprise left his lips and he found himself stepping slowly towards it.  It had his name on it, after all.  He untaped the envelope and opened it slowly, the prospect of last words or further clues suddenly making his heart hammer in his chest.  Saving it for later may have been wise, but with fingers moving on autopilot to fold it open, it was too late now.

 

 

He turned the paper over, finding the other side blank, not noticing that it shook in his grip.  The sense of loss and exasperation made him want to crumple it up, but he could only stare at the too-few words.  Why didn’t it say more? 

Trust Jim to leave him wanting more.

_Never mine_ , was the first morose thought that came to mind, but it simply wasn’t true. 

He was silently, subconsciously mouthing a promise instead: “I will.”

Time passed in which he did not move.  He wasn’t sure how long but as if waking from a spell, Sherlock finally folded the letter back up and stuffed it into his pocket.  Blinking, he regarded the room as a whole, again fighting the bizarre sense that the consulting criminal might stroll in at any moment…a result, surely, of this room looking more lived-in than the others, and not the most secret and sincerest wishes of the detective’s burnt heart.

Move.  Sherlock forced himself to.  Phone in hand, he alerted Mycroft that now would be an acceptable time to have the men sent in with their boxes.  The bustle of it all would be distracting enough.  Being alone here was too much, all of a sudden, and the presence of others would be inspirational in keeping himself together.  Alone later, he might give reign to other, internal pressures that pushed at the forefront of his brain for attention.  Feeling.  Sentiment.  Now was not the time. 

Or he might not.  This was pay dirt, the big prize, the key to every door.  He hoped remaining busy would be enough to keep the rest at bay. 

*

It was and it wasn’t.  The drive and the sentiments were too closely tied together, and constantly battled for his attention. 

Sherlock did not sleep that night.

The next morning’s news reported a fire at Philbeach Gardens. 

*


End file.
